Afterthought
by Fuwakateema
Summary: And now I laugh at how the world changed me, I think life chose me after all. (CJ/Will)


Title: Afterthought (1/1)  
  
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)  
  
Category: CJ/Will Sawyer  
  
Summary: And now I laugh at how the world changed me, I think life chose me after all.  
  
Rating: R for language and sexual situations  
  
Disclaimer: West Wing characters=Aaron, Diddley squat=me.  
  
Thanks: Sid, who is my essential support and keeps me *cough-sane-cough* And, yeah, Dar rocks.  
  
  
  
I have forgotten how to laugh, I think, as I swipe the condensation off of the bathroom mirror with the edge of my towel. I have forgotten how to eat, I think, as I stare at the protruding collarbone and sharp shoulder blades of my reflection. I have forgotten how to walk into the office without holding my breath, I think, as I comb my wet hair away from my face.  
  
If I try hard enough, I can remember when watching the news didn't make me grip the arms of my chair in anxiety. If I try hard enough, I can remember when the sound of shattering glass was only an annoyance, and not something to make my body tense with pain and fear. If I try hard enough, I can remember when my face was smooth and worry-free.  
  
This job has robbed me of laughter, and regular meals, and air. It has swallowed my carelessness, and innocence, and youth. And even though there are days when the price seems fair, most of my time now is spent wondering how easy it would be to just walk away.  
  
My father says I look tired on television. Martin says I need to take a vacation and James says I should eat more. They are all in agreement that I need someone to look after me. As if I wasn't capable of that myself, as if I hadn't taken care of them for fifteen years. I pretend to consider their words because stroking male egos has become second nature. Survival.  
  
And although I pride myself on being an independent woman, on being self-sufficient and blessedly single, there are days when the solitude of my apartment makes me cry. Today is one of those days, but I don't have the luxury of submitting to the tears behind my eyes. I am already thirty minutes late for work and I haven't even dried my hair. I sigh and think that maybe one of these days I'll call in sick.  
  
  
  
I remember when the grandeur of the White House awed me. When the immense hallways and sharp turns confused me. When the Oval Office sent chills down my spine. I miss the newness and reverence. Wish that I could transport myself back in time to when I thought we were making a difference, before I became jaded and cynical.   
  
My office is bathed in the dim light of a single desk lamp, and I can imagine my father scolding me about ruining my eyesight as I go through the memos piled before me with a highlighter. The rest of the west wing is quiet, almost eerily so, and I find my concentration lacking as I watch the muted TV along the wall. Some actress on Larry King, probably lamenting the state of schools or the tyranny of our government over third world countries, gestures with her hands and I am almost hypnotized by the diamond bracelet adorning her wrist.  
  
The silence in the corridors is disrupted by a short bark of laughter-Josh if my guess is correct, and I find myself suddenly longing for company. I stand up and wander over to the doorway, leaning against the frame nonchalantly. Josh and Toby, coats draped over their arms, are eagerly discussing something I can't quite distinguish from this distance. They both smile slightly in greeting, stopping once they reach me.  
  
"Hey, CJ, you seen Sam?" Josh asks.  
  
"I thought he went home already."  
  
"No, his briefcase and coat are still in his office."  
  
"Maybe he's in with the President," I suggest.  
  
"Yeah, maybe. Listen, when you see him, do me a favor and tell him we decided to wait for him at the bar."  
  
His eyes are guileless, and he doesn't realize how much his words have hurt me. They have a habit of this, these men I work with. A habit of ignoring me, of excluding me, of not really seeing me. I am an afterthought. Most days I brush it off because it seems unprofessional, and girly, to have my feelings hurt just because they forgot to invite me to one of their testosterone-induced alcohol binges, or holiday dinners.   
  
"You're more than welcome to come," Toby says quietly.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Josh agrees heartily, grinning widely.   
  
Too little, too late. "No, thanks. I have all this work and..."  
  
"Ok," he says quickly. "See you tomorrow."  
  
There is something depressing in watching them walk away, a feeling of being left behind. But I really do have a lot of work to catch up on, and I am grateful for the distraction. I lose myself in the intricacies of the latest health care reform bill, and then inner-city violence statistics. And later, I realize that I have lost some part of myself.  
  
I have become desensitized and hard. I can read about the number of uninsured children and not blink, I can go over the homicide rates for young men under twenty-one and not cry. There is something wrong with me, I conclude. But I don't have time to ruminate on that particular truth because there are still five more reports to be memorized for the briefings tomorrow.   
  
"You're working late."  
  
I look up and smile-grimace really-at Sam. "Yeah, with all the meetings today I fell a little behind."  
  
"Don't you have an assistant to help you with all this?" he asks as he walks into the office and makes a sweeping gesture to the papers on my desk.  
  
"Carol called in today. Her fiancé's son is sick, and Dan is in Australia on business."  
  
"Hmm...I never even noticed."  
  
Of course not, you self-absorbed ass. You never notice anything. "Yeah, she'll probably be out tomorrow, too."  
  
"You need any help?"  
  
He is clutching his briefcase, and his eyes are begging me to say no. I should teach him a lesson about offering his services without meaning it, but he'd only slow me down. "No thanks. Oh, I was supposed to tell you that Josh and Toby are waiting for you at the bar."  
  
"Yeah, I figured. All right, well, don't stay too late."  
  
I snort indelicately and dismiss him with a quick wave of my hand. "See you in the morning. Please don't do anything I'm going to regret."  
  
He only smiles and says, "Good night, CJ."   
  
Once he is gone, I prop my feet on the desk and recline in my chair. There must be something better, somewhere. I twirl a pencil between my fingers and contemplate a life with regular working hours, good pay, and better benefits. But then I remember that this is the first position I've had in a long while that hasn't felt beneath me. The trade-offs are fair, I guess.  
  
I turn the volume up on the TV and close my eyes, letting the sound of my own voice lull me to sleep. It is strange how normal this has become.  
  
  
  
I have seen the sun rising off the shore of Thailand, tropical flowers in the heart of the Amazon, a mother singing her child to sleep when pangs of hunger made it nearly impossible to do so, but nothing is quite so beautiful as the elegant curve of a woman's neck. Particularly this woman's neck. She is sound asleep, her head cocked to the side, nearly resting on her shoulder. I wince in sympathy because she's going to be in pain in the morning.  
  
I shift my coat and walk into her office to power down the two televisions. I turn at the sharp intake of air and find her sleepy eyes looking into mine. She smiles slightly as sits up.  
  
"I didn't mean to wake you."  
  
She waves off my concern and shakes her head. "S'okay. I should be getting home anyway." She stands up and begins to gather her things when she pulls back as if struck by a sudden thought. "I guess you finally got a real reporting job, huh?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your paper called this morning. They want press credentials for a new reporter...Grace something. So where to now? Burma? Java?"  
  
The sarcasm in her voice reminds me too much of the past and I shake my head tersely. "Are we really gonna do this, CJ?"  
  
We used to have this fight all the time. She would demand answers, and I would skirt the issue by promising to send her a postcard. She would always yell, and because I knew how much it infuriated her, I never did. And then we would collapse into bed together, and I would leave a note in the morning.  
  
This went on for three years, before I came home the last time to find she had packed my belongings into three pathetic boxes, shoved into the back of her closet. There were no pleas on my part, and no explanation on hers. We both accepted the end, and I was gone within the week.  
  
Anger deflates from her immediately and she scrubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry, God, I'm sorry."  
  
"It's ok," I assure her. "I'm actually going to be teaching an Ethics class at George Mason."  
  
She eyes me dubiously as she shoves various files into her briefcase. "Seriously, where are they sending you?"  
  
"I'm perfectly serious. A friend of mine heads the journalism department and offered me a position."  
  
She unceremoniously tugs the chain of the desk lamp, immersing the room in darkness. She waits until we are in the corridor before speaking again. "Did you get fired or something?"  
  
"CJ-"  
  
"No, I'm just wondering why Will Sawyer, investigative journalist extraordinaire, is suddenly interested in settling down."  
  
"I'm not settling down...I am simply trying to impart my expertise to the next generation."  
  
The truth of the matter is, my editor isn't so sure the paper can finance another feature piece in parts unknown because they already have four correspondents out on location already. And so instead of writing about things I couldn't care less about, I have decided to test the confines of the classroom. Should be interesting.  
  
She smiles widely at me and shrugs her shoulder. "I give it a month before you're calling your editors, begging for an assignment."  
  
"Oh ye of little faith," I mutter. But she's probably right and so I don't say anything more.  
  
"When do you start?"  
  
"Monday," I answer just as we reach the doors.  
  
She nods at the young security guard on duty, and when she turns to face me, there is something unreadable in her eyes. "Listen, good luck. Hope it works out."  
  
I want to tell her that this is the first time in years that we have been in the same city for any extended period of time, that I am not as restless as I once was, that the sadness in her eyes pains me, that maybe we should try again. But I can read what her answer would be in the way she walks with her back straight, and her shoulders pulled back. We, neither of us, are the same people.  
  
  
  
The air is cold, crisp, and it almost hurts to breathe. The sidewalk is slick with ice, and my gait is slow, and measured. The streets are deserted and the stars are dimmed in the sky by a blanket of clouds. But it is peaceful, and there is something fascinating in the lack of activity in the busy city.  
  
He is so guarded now, so wary and aloof. He's not at all the young optimist he once was; the man who thought he could change the world with a few well-worded paragraphs and proper grammar. But I guess this comes from observing starving children and corrupt governments, from meetings with officials and off-the-record comments, from living.  
  
There is a violent tug on my arm as I am knocked to the ground, and I'm stunned for a moment as I realize that the figure retreating from me is currently in possession of my purse. Anger wells in me like something alive, and I remove my shoes in quick succession, taking off after the thief.  
  
I've seen enough movies, and TV shows, to know that running after your attacker is simply not the safest thing to do, but my legs are willed by something unseen. I have been pushed aside, and taken advantage of for far to long, and this time I will not be made a victim. This man has snapped something inside of me.  
  
"Give me my purse back, you son of a bitch!" I call after him, noting with some satisfaction that my years of running have paid off because I'm not the slightest bit winded.  
  
I don't stop to process the obscene number of consequences of my actions before following him down a small side street, and I am not even really aware of what I am saying to him anymore, although I know words like 'fuck' and 'goddamned' are surely part of my vocabulary at this point. I am almost close enough to touch him when he throws my purse behind him.  
  
"Leave me alone, lady!" Why, he's just a child, no more than thirteen or fourteen if the pitch of his voice is an indicator.  
  
I halt suddenly, slipping a few centimeters forward on the ice, but I am able to balance myself before completely pitching to the ground. I look down to survey the damage as his footfalls grow distant and note with dismay that my cell phone is almost broken in two, and my compact mirror lies in shards beside it. But this is the worst, and I sigh in relief as I gather my things together.  
  
I am shaking, I realize, once I reach the well-lit street again, and wonder what I am supposed to do in this situation. Do I call the police? And what do I tell them? I never got a good look at my assailant, and I did get my purse back after all. No, I think I'll just go home and soak in the tub; maybe for the rest of my life.  
  
A tall figure suddenly looms before me, and I almost let out a scream before I recognize it is Will. His chest is heaving with exertion, and his face an alarming shade of red.   
  
"Didn't you hear me calling you?" he asks once he is able to breathe evenly. "Are you crazy? You could've been killed!"  
  
"It's a concrete jungle out there," I say flippantly, even though the weight of the situation hits me like a well-aimed blow to my stomach. "But hey, look, I got it," I inform him needlessly as I dangle the Coach bag in front of him.  
  
He leans against the wall and shakes his head. "I can't believe you, I really can't."  
  
"Hey, you picked up my shoes," I smile once I notice my very sensible, mildly-ugly flats in his hand. I reach over to grab them and can't help noticing the faint smell of cologne. God, he still wears the same brand after all these years.  
  
"What were you thinking?"  
  
There is no mistaking the exasperation in his voice, and I almost laugh so see him so ruffled. The look in his eyes sobers me, however, and I sigh. "I don't answer to you." I slip my feet into the shoes, and shoulder my bag. "Thank you for your concern, but it's really not necessary." God, I hope he doesn't notice the chattering of my teeth.  
  
"Yeah, don't mention it," he mutters caustically.  
  
"See ya around," I say because it's better than asking about all the promised postcards that never came.  
  
  
  
She's been featured in several magazines, sometimes even gracing the cover, but I have never bought one, never even flipped through the pages while waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store. I prefer this person she is now to be shrouded in mystery, unreachable, untouchable. And when I got assigned to her press room, I never imagined things would be so easy, as if there wasn't a road stretched between us paved with heartbreak and lies.  
  
And so instead of letting her go, I walk her home, and agree to come up for a drink even though I know she's asking so much more. Her lips seek mine urgently before she even has time to lock the door, and when I press her against the wall, she laughs at the familiarity. She pleads against my ear 'harder' and 'faster', and later, when I carry her to bed, she will smile lazily and wrap her long legs around my waist.  
  
She is just as I remembered, mostly angles and sharp juts of bone, but her skin so soft, I almost cry at the feel of it beneath my hands. She falls asleep with her face pressed against my neck, and when she sighs, I pull her closer because I have missed the presence of another human body wrapped intimately with mine.   
  
Her apartment is as I expected, filled with photos of her father and brothers, and only one of her mother on the nightstand. The same one she used to keep hidden in one of her bureau drawers because she didn't like to be reminded of what she had lost. Maybe now she knows it's a battle she can't win, and so I glance at the woman's petite features, and then search for signs of likeness in CJ. I am only slightly disappointed when there are none.  
  
Hours later, when she opens her eyes and focuses on the man in her bed, she smiles a bit self-deprecatingly and plants a small kiss on my shoulder. Her impossibly long fingers find mine and curl around them. There is no trace of embarrassment tempering her movements as she stretches along the length of my body, throwing her leg over my hip. And when she kisses me again, it is without restraint.  
  
There is something magical in the way she smiles, I think as she towels her hair dry and sits beside me on the bed. She smells of soap, and shampoo, and something indefinable I have come to associate only with her. Raspberries, or apples, or maybe flowers. I'm not entirely sure, and I'm too embarrassed to ask. So I lean back on my elbows and try to concentrate on something other than her lightly tanned legs and the way they seem to go on forever.  
  
"So, where does this leave us?" she asks because she has always been the one do so.  
  
I put my hand lightly on her camisole-covered back and believe I am imagining the catch in her voice. "I don't know."  
  
"You never did," she replies, though there is no bitterness in her tone. She lies down beside me and sighs. "I don't want to go in today. It's Saturday...I remember when I used to have weekends off."  
  
I kiss her temple and allow my fingers to rest under her chin. "You want to grab dinner together tonight?"  
  
"I'd like that," she says softly. "Pick me up at seven. I'll call you if I can't get out in time."  
  
I watch from her living room window as she walks to the waiting cab. Her car is at a mechanic shop, and I persuaded her not to walk. Begged, pleaded, more like it, but I could see that she was pleased I cared so much. And I have to wonder what kind of lonely life she has been living if even the slightest show of concern brings that radiant glow to her face.   
  
There have been times I felt like I was drowning in beauty, the melancholy kind that artists paint with supplies bought with the rent money. Tragic, and painful, and guilt-inspiring. But I told myself to accept the next assignment, wherever it was, because there was always the hope of finding something true, and real, in the suffering.   
  
And it is only as I step back into the bedroom where her perfume still lingers that I realize she is what I have been searching for all these years.  
  
  
  
The apartment we shared those few years was expensive, even though it was located in the rundown part of town. But we thought the neighborhood had character in that pretentious way people have of taking pleasure in their shortcomings. It didn't matter that none of our friends would visit us after dark, or that the roof leaked when it rained. We were happy.  
  
But we only thought we were happy. I would bring home groceries, and he would cook, and more often than not, we would make love on the kitchen floor and eat the overcooked broccoli later. He was amazing, a veritable god in my eyes, but the polish soon wore off and the more time he spent away, the more faults I found. It was inevitable. We didn't want the same thing, and I grew resentful with every week that passed with no word.  
  
So instead of destroying him, and myself in the process, I packed his clothes, and records, and books into boxes and hid them in the back of my closet. And when he came home, he didn't have to ask what it all meant. There were no tears, or promises. The break was simple, and clean, and over the years I would ask him out to lunch when he was in the country, but he would always-wisely-decline.  
  
And now, I imagine I can feel his fingers trailing across my back, mapping the course his mouth would take. The world has changed in only a few hours, and it doesn't matter that my loneliness was the underlying cause for allowing him in my bed, in my heart, again. I smile as I pick up the postcard on my desk.  
  
I run my fingers across the glossy surface of the Reflecting Pool, and then trace the letters in Washington DC, before flipping it over and reading the carefully written message.  
  
CJ,  
  
I never sent postcards because I never knew whether I was coming back. I do now.  
  
--Will  
  
It is only when I move to sit down that I notice the small box in my chair. I open it cautiously and then weep as I pull out stacks of postcards, bound together with rubber bands. Malaysia, South Africa, Singapore, Sudan, and others all addressed to me. Most of them affixed with postage, and stained with ink. Some are unreadable, some are stuck together, and some are serials of each other, numbered carefully in his handwriting.  
  
A heavy sorrow is ripped from my body and I lay my head on the desk with the suddenness of it all. He has thought of me all these years, has poured his heart out in unsent notes, and I think that maybe all those years of not knowing was worth it.  
  
  
  
The end 


End file.
